


miles to go before i sleep

by soltvde



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: First Kiss, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Scars, Winter, projecting 101
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-01
Updated: 2017-02-01
Packaged: 2018-09-21 10:37:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,281
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9544196
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/soltvde/pseuds/soltvde
Summary: He tastes copper on his tongue, and Credence tries to hide the scars on his hands, ashamed and ugly, presses his thumb deep into his flesh; but Graves pulls his hand away, cradles it.





	

**Author's Note:**

> classic case of "i should be studying, but it started snowing outside, and i felt lonely, and needed comfort".

It’s when darkness descends that he comes.

January bites at Credence’s skin, leaves him shivering on the corner of the street, huddled in a thin jacket and his threadbare scarf, curling in on himself to keep out the cold. When he looks up into the starry night sky, he can almost think it’s beautiful: snowflakes falling, whipped around in the air by a bitter breeze. The streetlights, turned on some time ago, tint everything deceivingly warm.

But he closes his eyes and sees nothing, feels nothing but smoke curling slowly around his bones.

Not many people are still outside. The ones that are have their scarves wrapped around their faces, walking at a hurried pace, stopping for nothing. Not for the traffic lights, not for a scrawny kid holding out pamphlets; so when Credence hears quick, sure steps coming towards him, stopping a couple feet away, he almost doesn’t dare turn around.

Time stops for a little while. Credence holds onto the paper in his hands, instinctively braces for vicious words, for a shove, for anything. Nothing comes, and the snow is still falling, and he _knows_.

Credence realizes he’s been waiting, secretly. His mind is a simple one, after all.

“You’re still here,” Graves says when Credence turns, and it’s more of a question than the kind of biting accusation he’s used to from everyone else. His voice creeps up Credence’s spine, leaving marks that burn like pleasant rays of sun. Snowflakes leave tiny dots of white in his slicked-back hair, but the scarf around his neck seems futile, fashion more than function, as if he doesn’t feel the cold at all. There’s a smile tugging at the corners of his lips, subtle and kind and as magnetic as the first time he’s seen it, and Credence wants to melt right there in the snow.

Graves’ eyes travel across him, top to bottom. Credence has to remind himself that it’s not the kind of scrutiny he’s come to know from others, it’s _safe_ — the word still feels alien on his tongue. Graves’ smile turns into a frown when he sees Credence’s hands. They’re red and dry and shivering; he hides them behind his back in a weak attempt at secrecy.

“Show me,” Graves says, and that’s all it takes, really. When he takes his hand, it burns on Credence’s skin, but he never pulls away.

“Oh, Credence,” he murmurs, as if he didn’t mean to say it out loud, as his fingers ghost across the cracked skin on his knuckles and the cuts on his palm. Then, at once, his touch is gone, and there’s a hand on his shoulder, strong and rooting him where he stands. Credence looks around, down the street and up the house fronts, but they’re alone. He’s swaying towards Graves already, weak and hungry for touch.

“Let me help,” Graves asks, thumb digging into his flesh, but it doesn’t hurt. Nothing he does could hurt him, Credence thinks. He knows, deep down, that this trust is dangerous, but he does not care.

“I still have to hand these—” he begins, but falters when Graves reaches out his hand. Credence stares at it, not afraid but perplexed, and Graves says, “give them to me.”

So Credence does, quiet again, only watching. Their fingers touch when Graves takes the flyers; he holds them up, and winks, covertly. Credence’s heart skips a beat — then another when the stash of papers bursts into flames right before his eyes. The little ball of light drops to the frosty ground and continues burning, until nothing is left but a small heap of wet ash.

“I see your work for today is done,” Graves says, deadly smirk on his lips, and he holds out his hand again, palm-up and trusting. Credence knows what it means this time, but he stays still.

“Come with me,” Graves says, and Credence, weak and hurt and selfish, nods.

The first thing he feels, once the pressure on his chest has lifted, is warmth. True, bone-deep warmth, spreading from his heart to his toes. Before he can look around, Graves’ coat and scarf are thrown over the back of a chair, and Credence is led to the bathroom, small and all white tiles, the light flickering to life at the snap of Graves’ fingers.

Credence slowly sits on the edge of the bathtub, very deliberately trying not to think about Graves bathing; focuses on watching him rummage through a cupboard instead, pulling open drawer after drawer. When he finds what he’s looking for, he slams it shut. There’s two small bottles in his hand, one purple, one black.

Then, without warning, Graves kneels on the floor before Credence, and he almost chokes; it’s so unexpectedly intimate, his heartbeat threatens to come to a sudden halt. When Graves looks up from reading the labels of the vials, Credence remembers how to breathe; he grips the edge of the bathtub, knuckles turning white, for a brief moment nothing but terrified of the kindness.

Graves is oblivious to the shivering mess that he is, only asks for his hand, voice soft and quiet in this room. The warmth of Graves’ skin on his revives the calm; they sit in silence, tranquil and peaceful in a way that makes Credence wonder if maybe he’s imagining it all.

As he looks down, he sees the snow has melted in Graves’ hair; it gleams in the light, and Credence allows his gaze to wander down to his fingers dabbing ointment on his wounds. A weathered hand, warm and soft, roams across his own, and the pain fades. But the ache in his chest grows stronger, like his ribcage is going to cave in. He’s helpless and in control at once, like this, so much that he doesn’t realize his breathing turning erratic. It’s only when Graves rubs his thumb across  the back of Credence’s hand, tapping his chin to get his attention, that he takes a deep, shuddering breath.

Graves’ caress does not seize. As he works, his touch lingers, first on his palm, then the delicate skin of his wrist.

“Does it hurt?” Graves asks, closing up another cut, leaving only a pink mark.

“No,” he whispers back, voice hoarse, and watches in wonder as he’s healed like it’s nothing. He doesn’t know how long they stay like this: Graves’ fingers brushing over his skin, Credence seized up in anticipation for something he can’t name. He revels in the touch, defying the voice in his head telling him that he shouldn’t be comforted, that the smoke in his veins is tainting Graves. He remains still, only shuddering once or twice when a scar is left behind.

Graves works in silence. His focus is on Credence’s hands, inching up slowly to his forearms, but he does not notice the turmoil beating against Credence’s chest, does not see the way Credence looks at him, at his fingers, at the rogue strand of hair falling onto Graves’ forehead.

One last rub across his arms, one last healed cut, and it’s like a spell is lifted. Credence’s senses return; he hears blood rushing in his ears. Graves gets up, washes his hands. When Credence raises his head, their gazes meet in the small mirror above the sink. He wants to look away, but he’s captured; Graves smiles again, his subtle smirk, and suddenly Credence doesn’t know what to do with his hands.

The smell of something sweet wafts into the room. _Chocolate_ , Credence realizes, just when Graves snaps his fingers again and the light goes out. Credence is led to the couch in the middle of the room, next to a pile of blankets, wool and cotton and so soft to the touch that he wonders if he’s even allowed.

Lost in thought, he startles when a mug appears before him, floating in the air, waiting. Credence turns around to look at Graves in the kitchen nook.

“Don’t tell anyone,” he says, back still turned and voice filling the whole room, taking a cup for himself out of the cabinet, “but I’m not a master at household spells. I hope it’s still fine.”

The mug floats back into his field of vision, as if insisting on being taken, and, reluctantly, Credence does. It’s warm, and it smells— like nothing he’s ever smelled before.

“Drink,” Graves says, wrapping a blanket around Credence’s shoulders. It’s a warm embrace, like a cocoon, and as he huddles up in it he realizes it’s the first time he feels safe since he can remember.

“It’ll make you feel better,” Graves adds, so Credence takes a tentative sip, and he’s sure he’s in heaven, somehow. He closes his eyes, chocolate melting on his tongue. Graves huffs out a laugh, and when Credence looks back, amusement is written all over Graves’ face.

“You’ve got something—” he begins, points at the corner of his own mouth. Hastily, Credence wipes around his lips, but Graves’ grin only grows wider. He reaches out, hand hovering inches away from his face.

“Let me?” he asks, and Credence nods, braces for contact, but it’s not enough; Graves’ thumb strokes across his upper lip, his cupid’s bow, and the mood in the room suddenly shifts, the earth feels like it’s being pulled away under his feet. He almost forgets the mug of hot chocolate in his hands, but it stops just short of his lap before it falls, hovering uneasily. Credence’s hands shake, and Graves retreats. There’s an unspoken question on his face, calculating, watching. Credence wants nothing but to curl in on himself, stammers, “I’m sorry—” but Graves sets his own cup of coffee down on the ground, and Credence _breathes_ , deep, nervously.

His eyes flick towards the front door in despair, wishing Graves wouldn’t have asked him to come. He’s clumsy, careless, disrupts every scene he’s in.

“Hey,” Graves interrupts his thoughts. “Look at me.”

His voice is deep, calming, and it bites him right in the chest. Credence couldn’t have raised his head if he wanted to. He inspects his own hands instead, fidgeting and trembling in his lap, brushes over what has before been a labyrinth of scars— Mary Lou’s masterpiece, painted on his skin.

He’s fragile, he knows; like a bird lying helpless on the sidewalk pavement. He rubs his thumb across a persistent scar at the back of his hand, wishing he could scrub it off, charm it away like Graves can. He thinks of the marks on his back, the ones that still hurt when the cloth of his shirt rubs up against them, winding up to his shoulders and down to his thighs. Then, like a phantom touch, he thinks of gentle, hardened hands dancing across his back, and he stills.

Credence feels Graves’ eyes on him, and he’s scared it’s written all over his face; the pull he feels towards him, the smoke in his bones. He tastes copper on his tongue, and Credence tries to hide the scars on his hands, ashamed and ugly, presses his thumb deep into his flesh; but Graves pulls his hand away, cradles it. Takes a deep breath.

“I have scars, too,” he says, his lips in a tight line, and Credence wonders how someone like Graves could ever think of comparing himself to him. He tries to hide his face in the collar of his shirt, but Graves seeks his gaze; his brows are furrowed in something Credence thinks might be tenderness, a smile playing at his lips.

“They’re not a sign of weakness,” Graves continues, almost whispering, as though sharing a secret. “They mean strength. Survival.”

He says it with force, as if he has to remind himself as well, and Credence’s heart seizes up for reasons he can’t begin to know. An image of himself cowering at the bottom of the stairwell, nails digging into the hardwood floor, flashes before his eyes, and he pushes it away, afraid Graves will see.

“You’re magnificent, Credence.” It’s a conclusion, a universal truth. His smile grows, the grip on his hand tightens just a bit. Credence looks away, thinks of the dark smoke inside, the ache in his chest, the hum of his heart when he looks into Graves’ eyes, and wonders why nobody can see something as ever-present as his brokenness.

Choking up, Credence realises he’s already going to hell; so he asks, against everything in him telling him to stay _quiet_ , to not scare Graves away, he asks, “can you show me?”

His voice is hushed, laced with uncertainty. Graves thinks, visibly surprised by the question, and Credence regrets it immediately. But Graves gets out of the armchair and sits down next to him, so close that Credence can smell the lingering remains of his soap. It’s heady, leaves him enthralled; it’s not sweet like chocolate, but comforting just the same, because it’s _Graves_ , gentle and strong and charming.

He’s rolling up the sleeves of his dress shirt, high above his elbow, and, like a drowning man, Credence savours every inch of skin he gets to see. He openly stares, at the tendons of muscle and the light dusting of freckles, but also— faded lines of scarred skin criss-crossing over his arm, winding up and ending somewhere underneath the shirt, and _God_ , Credence thinks, he wants to see everything. His fingers itch to touch, but they stay where they are, scared to break something so captivating. He traces the scars without touching, committing the pattern to memory. He stops at one: a deep, pale swirl, old but still prominent among the others.

“What happened here?” he asks in a rare moment of confidence, voice unwavering, but still not quite looking Graves in the eye. When he’s asked if he is sure, if he really wants to hear, he nods. So Graves tells him, and by the end of it each scar has its own story, its own meaning, and Credence can almost bear to look at the pale skin of his own arms without wanting to run.

Graves takes Credence’s hand back into his, breaking the reverie of Credence tracing the marks with his fingertips and watching the hairs stand up wherever he grazes his skin. They’re close, impossibly close, and Credence has started wondering long ago whether he’s stuck in an elaborate dream, whether he’s going to wake up any minute wrapped in sticky sheets and the taste of smoke on his tongue. But he’s still here, still breathing the same air as Graves, still feeling his heartbeat under his skin, and he decides that this warmth could be everything.

His mind was an unweeded garden until Graves came along: now there are paths on which to wander. The ground is still frozen, lifeless; this was never supposed to happen. But flowers bloomed nonetheless, and his heart sings at the touch of Graves’ fingertips, and— if that’s what he’s worth, if that’s all he gets— he’s content.

It’s blessedly quiet save for Graves’ deep breathing; snowflakes are still falling outside the window, and if Credence could, he’d bottle up this moment and keep it forever, safe in the loose floorboard under his bed.

He looks up at Graves. His posture radiates confidence and poise, but his expression is unusually soft, humble, different from the man he’s gotten to know. And then, because words always fail and it’s the only thing he can think of doing, he leans forward, presses his lips to Graves’; almost seizes up when he hears a surprised gasp. Gently, Graves palms the side of his face, moves back to look him in the eyes, to make sure Credence _wants_ — and God knows he does, he does, and it must show, because Graves combs through the mess that is his hair, his hand settling at the back of his neck.

“You are magnificent,” he whispers again, an echo of before, and comes back closer, turning the hasty graze of lips into something tender, something delicate; an epilogue to the touches they’ve shared.

Credence’s heart climbs up into his throat, choking him with disbelieving frenzy, and his hands cling to the soft fabric of Graves’ shirt, never wanting to let go. It’s the height of everything he could ever feel, Credence is sure; from here on, everything will be but a blurry photograph of this moment, barely capturing the stunning reality of it. But then Graves’ lips kiss down the side of his jaw, down his throat and along his neck, and— he was fooled. This, certainly, must be the end of him; but he doesn’t care, as long as Graves doesn’t leave. And he doesn’t; they stay like that, trading kisses and small gasps and, once, when Graves nibbles at his collarbone, a moan, barely suppressed.

“Stay,” Graves whispers against his neck, pulling them both out of the haze of something Credence does not yet know a name for. Credence shudders at the hot breath tickling his skin, almost gasps again when the gentlest of kisses is pressed behind his ear, and he feels boneless and vigorous at once. The hand brushing against his hip does not inch up, Graves does not shift closer, as though he was a fragile piece of china, but Credence wishes like nothing else that he would. His emanating warmth reaches him still, but it’s not enough, never enough: want burns under his skin, wishing to pull him close, but not daring to.

He must look a mess, rumpled clothes and disheveled hair, but when Graves leans back, there’s a fondness on his face Credence can hardly believe could be directed at him.

“Stay,” he asks again, with a forceful gentleness Credence has only ever heard come from him.

“Don’t think—” another kiss, to his temple this time, his hair tickling the sensitive skin; “don’t think about your mother. I’ll take care of her.”

Credence doesn’t ask what he means, and finds that he doesn’t care. Not with Graves so close, with the barely-there scent of cologne in the air; not with nimble fingers brushing the shorn hair at the back of his neck.

In the morning, it’s with a heavy heart that he leaves the comfort of the night. Graves touches his cheek, and Credence nuzzles into it like a cat starved for affection, eyes fluttering shut. His heart beats high in his throat, and he knows it’s a mistake to look up into Graves’ eyes, but he does it anyway.

“One day,” Graves says with a stroke of his thumb across Credence’s cheek, “you won’t have to go back. I promise.”

Credence doesn’t want to believe him. But there’s something tucked away behind his eyes, and maybe, Credence thinks, maybe it’s loneliness, too; for a moment, he allows himself to imagine a future filled with magic and touches that don’t viciously hurt.

They reappear in the alley across his church. A sinking feeling settles in his chest. This place still feels like it’s theirs alone, and Credence, selfishly, doesn’t want to let go.

“Promise,” Graves says again, whispers it into his ear, kisses him one last time.

“Where—” Mary Lou begins when Credence makes himself step into the house, her voice laced with wrath and hatred, and Credence flinches at the sound, instinct and fear briefly taking over his limbs. But the unmistakable shimmer of magic moves the air between them, blurring it like hot pavement in the summer, and his mother turns away from him without another word.

Credence looks back outside the door only to get a glimpse Graves briskly walking away, back towards the hidden alleyway; he twists around one last time to give him a smile, and then he’s gone in a whirl of clothes and magic.


End file.
